“Copy that.”
Ceepak turns to me. “Danny?”
We hustle up the hall, smash through that parking lot exit, run to our car.
“Siren and lights?” I ask as I crank the ignition.
“Roger that. Kill them once we initiate our final approach to boardwalk parking.”
I squeal wheels and burn rubber. Every light on our roofbar is swirling like crazy. The siren is wailing.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Axel received a phone call from his mob contact, the driver, Mr. Accardi.”
“And?”
“Certain members of the Lombardo crime family had gathered at their social club this evening to watch the
Figures. They were, more or less, technical advisers for the show.
“Apparently, Mr. Accardi does not drive Mr. Lombardo on Mondays or Tuesdays. Another driver fills in for him. That driver was also at the social club tonight. When he saw Ms. Shapiro holding the charity check, he said it was ‘the same chick who made the money drop’ on Monday. Made the big deal with Bobby.”
“So she went down there three times?”
“Right. Apparently, the third visit was as an independent agent.”
“To take out a hit on her boss?”
“Such is my supposition.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps to ensure that, in Mr. Mandrake’s absence, she would take over as executive producer of the program when it is renewed for another year. I suspect Ms. Shapiro knew full well why Mr. Mandrake was sending her to Atlantic City. By terminating Mr. Mandrake, she assumed she would also terminate our investigation, ending our potential threat to the
Geeze-o, man. I always heard that television was a cutthroat business, but this is ridiculous. Layla isn’t clawing her way to the top; she’s hiring mobsters to whack her way up the corporate ladder.
We make pretty good time to Pier Two. It’s 9:22. We hop out of our cruiser and sprint through our own security blockade.
“Lock down this access point, Gus,” Ceepak barks as we dash past security.
Up ahead, I can see lights illuminating the bright red clown lips at the Fun House entrance. They have the TV show sound pumping through speakers so the live audience gathered on the boardwalk can hear everything as they watch the show on six giant-screen TVs set up for their viewing pleasure.
I can hear the final guitar chords of “The ’59 Sound,” this rocking song by an amazing Jersey group that sounds a lot like the new Bruce Springsteen.
Great choice of bands, I think. “The ’59 Sound” is all about “which song they’re gonna play” when you die.
We’re jogging toward a trailer parked right in front of Gabe Hess’s All American Snack Shack, where all the chaser lights are still blinking. We head for the attached staircase at the back. One of those generic young crew guys in shorts, tool belt, and headset holds up a hand.
“Sorry. This is a restricted area-”
“Sea Haven P.D.,” says Ceepak, flashing his badge and flipping up the holster strap over his Glock. I do the same. “Step aside, son.”
The young dude does as he is told.
We charge up the steel steps.
Slam open another door.
The trailer is dark except where it’s illuminated by red and green buttons or the jittery glow of TV monitors- the feeds from all the remote camera crews. Guys wearing headsets are sliding knobs, toggling switches, saying stuff like “Go to two” and “Three, tighten up” into their headsets. In the middle of the chaos, I see the director, Rutger Reinhertz. He’s waving his hands like he’s an orchestra conductor.
“And take three. Cue Chip.”
On the screens I see Chip Dale with Mike Tomasino. Mike’s going into the Fun House first with a representative from his charity, a guy holding on to a dog leash attached to a very noble-looking German shepherd.
While Chip explains the rules of the mad dash through the Fun House, I hear Layla before I see her.
“Unit three? Unit three? Where’s my fucking smoke, Jimbo?”
Jimbo’s voice leaks out of a tinny speaker set into the slanted panel in front of Layla. She’s dressed in a tight-fitting suit that hugs all her curves and still has the three top buttons open on her blouse so everybody can get a peek at Victoria’s secret.
“Jimbo? Where the fuck is my smoke?”
“I gave you a fucking grip!”
I nudge Ceepak. Point out Layla.
“We need smoke in the black-light mirror maze or it just looks like a bad Jimi Hendrix poster,” she screams. “Someone find that fucking grip. Which one is it, Jimbo?”
“Sharon?” This from Layla.
“Yeah?” says Layla’s underling/producer-wannabe.
“Find Sean. Send him in the back door with his smoke box. And remind me to fire his union ass after we wrap.”
“On it,” shouts Sharon as she bolts out the trailer door.
Ceepak and I are standing right behind Layla now. Ceepak taps her on the shoulder.
Layla spins around. “What?” Now she sees who we are. “What the … how the hell … this is a closed set. …”
“Outside,” says Ceepak. “Now.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. Now.” He takes hold of her arm.
She pulls back. “Don’t you fucking touch me!”
People are staring now. I glance up at the main monitor.
They’re running commercials. Of course they wouldn’t send Mike into the Fun House without teasing it first and saying he’s going in-
“Fine,” says Ceepak, “we’ll do this here.” He spies a gooseneck lamp attached to the top of the slanted console in front of Layla. He snaps it on. Aims it at Layla, who recoils under the harsh light.
Before she has a chance to speak, Ceepak unloads on her.
“We know you went to Atlantic City on Monday and made your own side deal with the Lombardo family.”
Layla should never play poker. She has a tell-a little facial tic that gives away her whole hand. It’s small, but it’s there: a nervous twitch in her left cheek.
“That’s bullshit.”
